


Popular

by test_kard_girl



Series: The Reverseverse [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 19:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/test_kard_girl/pseuds/test_kard_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Popular: Episode 1 of the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/32524">'Reverseverse'</a> series. </p><p>The Glee Club and the jock-block try and get to grips with the messy fallout from their new inter-caste relationships, causing Principal Figgins to drop a bombshell that the club might not recover from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Puck spots Kurt's Navigator in the parking lot as he skids past towards the bike racks, and his stomach instantly tightens so much he thinks he might pass out. But he breathes deep and keeps peddling and he's ok, and if his fingers are trembling a bit as he chains his bike up, well, who's really watching?

As it turns out, freakin' _everyone's_ watching. In all the emotional wreckage of yesterday, he'd kinda forgotten that he'd actually dropped to his knees in front of the most infamous bitch in school _in the middle of the cafeteria_ and serenaded him for like a full hour and a half or something. Turns out, big public declarations of love? They're kind of big and public.

No-one says anything of course. Because nobody knows what way Kurt's playing this ('cos he must be playing. Hummel and Puckerman? Not gonna happen. Not fucking ever. Has the dude lost his mind?) and no-one wants to risk muttering something that might end in social castration. But they just stare. And whisper. And keep staring. 

Puck gets to his locker and manages to undo his combination and unload his rucksack without incident. He shoves half a notepad of paper and a pen in his back pocket and slams the door shut, thinking of maybe running to the guys' and having another piss and washing his face again 'cos he feels shaky and clammy all over. He has the second verse of _'With Me'_ stuck in his head and it's driving him a bit crazy 'cos he thinks that when he does finally run into Kurt he'll open his mouth and just _that_ will come out and... and... well that wouldn't be cool in any way Puck can think of. If nothing else— he's decided resolutely— at some point today, he and Kurt will have a normal conversation that doesn't involve singing or casual sadism.

"Hey dude."

Puck jumps like three feet in the air.

" _Fuck_ man, what the...?"

Finn just grins lopsidedly at him, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Embarrassed, Puck leans forward and hits his forehead off his locker:

"Finn; dude… what you creeping up on me for?"

"You're kinda jumpy man." Finn observes, looking a bit concerned. Puck just shakes his head and Finn falls into step with him as they make their way along the corridor.

"No way, I'm cool." Puck assures him, then sighs. "Fuck— what're they all staring for?" Puck can't think of another time when he's had this much attention. His cheeks are burning.

"Nah, they're not staring..." Finn shrugs, then looks kind of apologetic when a gaggle of mathletes burst into giggles at their passing.

"Uh, y'know, they're just happy cos it's mint trifle day."

He gets a little cheerful smile on his face at the idea of mint trifle day.

"You seen the guys yet?" Puck asks vaguely, mostly just in the hope that stupid small talk will stop his brain from exploding.

"Matt's in. Mike's got that physio thing today, you know, ‘cos of his slippy disks..."

Finn breaks off to smile at Santana Lopez and Quinn Fabray, who are sitting at their usual spot on the bottom step next to the girl's bathrooms, their cheerleading uniforms picking them out as the social lepers they are.

Puck smiles at them too, then—'cos they're kind of friends-- forces his feet to stop in front of them.

"'Sup?" he says. Santana just gives him a deadpan sneer:

"So are we calling you Princess Puckerman now?"

"Fuck you Lopez."

"Don't think I've got the parts you like sweetie."

"Hey Finn." Quinn says, a bit too loud to be normal. She tosses her ponytail.

Finn tries to look not too embarrassed.

"Hey. Uh, how’s it going?"

"Really great." Quinn says, and smiles. She's pretty when she smiles, if kind of creepy and stalkerish.

Santana raises an eyebrow at her:

"You done?"

Finn and Puck leave them bickering, Finn's blush still high on his cheeks. Puck narrows his eyes at him:

"Does Rachel know Quinn's kind of stalking you?"

"Yeah, well, I think so. She checked under my bed last time she came round." Finn admits. He runs a hand back through his hair. "She's not worried though, I mean, she knows I on't think of Quinn like that..."

Puck snorts a laugh: _no-one_ thinks of Quinn Fabray like that.

Then his heart seems to jump straight up into his throat, because they've rounded the corner and suddenly there are the glee kids, chatting happily, lounging against their lockers; then, as a collective (it seems to Puck) they turn their perfect faces and stare straight at him.

"Good morning Finn!" Rachel's smile breaks wide across her face and she moves across to kiss him elegantly, once on each cheek, before arranging herself in his arms in a way that makes Finn look like handy piece of furniture in a magazine shoot.

"Uh hey babe..." Finn grins back, once he finds his voice. Despite his blushes, his eyes actually seem to have little gold stars in them.

Puck forces himself to look away, to scan the row of mildly amused faces in front of him.

Kurt isn't even looking at him.

He's in the middle of some fairly intense looking conversation with Mercedes, one hand gesturing sharply and the other arm folded defensively across his chest, and Puck's just about to gather all his courage and clear his throat and say something when Mercedes slaps Kurt lightly across the shoulder and his head snaps up to meet Puck's gaze.

"Hey." Puck manages, sounding about as casual as a police cordon.

 Kurt just stares at him for a second longer; then, as if he'd actually forgotten his lines, he blinks and replies:

 "Hello Noah." and returns immediately to his conversation.

 Puck swallows, feeling his stomach churning. Unable to stand all the curious pairs of eyes watching him, he looks at the floor.

The rest of them clearly don't know what to do and, after a second, Artie starts talking very animatedly about the multimedia extravaganza he has planned for winter prom, and then, over the top of everyone's too-cheerful laughter, the bell goes for first period.

Everyone starts to move, and Puck moves with them, thankful to be part of a crowd and not so obviously a _fucking stupid loser_. He's glad he has math first— none of the glee kids are dumb enough to be in class with him. He’ll probably tell the nurse he has a headache and get out of it anyway. Maybe she’ll send him home.

He shuffles his feet a bit, lets the gleeks go ahead, Finn too caught up with Rachel to wait on him.

He's such a fucking loser. Fuck it, _fuck it_ … he's gonna screw this up, he just knows it. Kurt can't even _talk_ to him...

"Hey, Puckerman."

The familiar clipped enunciation starts Puck out of his reverie of self-hatred. He looks over, and finds Kurt walking beside him--actually, voluntarily _beside him_. Briefly, the other boy catches Puck's gaze before his ice blue eyes zip immediately back to appraise the cluster of heads in front of him.

"Uh… hey." Puck returns, outdoing himself with wit. He feels like the butterflies have overthrown the defences of his stomach and invaded his whole fucking entire body.

Kurt looks as on-trend as ever, skinny pants and t-shirt and casual blazer thrown over the top. He has a navy cord hat set at a jaunty angle at the back of his head and Puck suddenly feels dramatically under-dressed.

"So…Your shirt could be imprisoned for psychological abuse." Kurt observes with unhidden disdain, as if he'd heard Puck's thoughts; and Puck would be cowed-- but he's distracted by the slim, cool fingers brushing against his, tangling briefly before they part for separate classes, and so, somehow, it kind of feels like a compliment.

 

*

Will Shuester would like to think of himself as the total HBIC at McKinkey High.

Sure, he didn’t have any knowledge of that acronym until he found it as an addendum to Kurt Hummel’s name on the front of his Spanish notebook and got curious, but now that he’s Googled it, he’s pretty damn sure that title belongs solely to him.

After all, he is the most feared teacher at school, ruling the classrooms and hallways with a combination of scathing wit, cutting-edge teaching methods, kick-ass dance moves and an innate knowledge of his students’ weak-spots.

Kids cower; Sue Sylvester seethes; mothers come to parents’ night with their panties in their handbags, and now? 

Now he has Glee Club.

William Schuester: HBIC.

It hadn’t taken much to persuade Rachel to rat out Mr Ryerson. All he had to do was crown her official Club Captain and sign a ten-page contract stipulating all musical numbers performed by the female lead in _West Side Story_ went directly to her. Then it was goodbye creepy old Mr Ryerson, and hello _success_.

This year's crop of Glee kids were a veritable powder-keg of talent. The only minor worry Will had was the lack of numbers, but Will wasn't about start recruiting any old riff-raff into his chorus line-- New Directions had five National titles under their belts and Will knew: to keep that up, to win at Nationals, his New Directions could have only the best. The _very best_.

He knew he was right when he saw how his kids were treated by the rest of the school: worshipped, feared; _lusted after_. They ruled the school, topping even the mathletes (sometimes literally); and they were _his kids_.

William Schuester: HBIC.

So what really, really pisses him off, is that the one person who he _wants_ to fall at his feet; then one person he _wants_ to gasp in awe at his manliness, the one person who could legitimately be the Cleopatra to his Anthony, refuses to acknowledge his Head-Bitch-In-Charge-ness.

“Hey, Emma, can I sit--”

“My personal space extends at least five feet.” Emma Pillsbury interrupts icily, gesturing delicately around her with one plastic-gloved finger.

Will obediently takes a step back. He looks around and sees the nearest free chair is at another table—a table occupied by Sue Sylvester nonetheless—and it looks like someone puked up mint trifle over it.

Gingerly, Will lowers himself onto the edge of the chair.

“Wow, that’s a really uh, attractive, necklace, Emma…” Will tries again, plastering his most winning smile on his face.

Emma lifts her big brown eyes; gives him a scrutinising expression:

“How’s your pregnant wife Will?”

“Ouch.” Sue hisses from behind him.

Will ignores her, shifting to a more casual position on his chair.

“She’s good. She’s uh… moody.” He finishes a bit lamely.

Truth is, Terri’s a complete pain in the ass at the moment, but he figures women probably get a bit ‘female solidarity’ about pregnancy and stuff.

“So.” He tries to change tack, taking a sip of his latte: “I imagine you’ve heard Figgins has bumped up the Glee Club budget. Now _I’m_ in charge he expects us to make quite a showing at regionals--”

“ _\--Excuse me_?”

Sue Sylvester’s fury is hard to ignore, as futile as it might be. Will sighs heavily and turns around, noticing with a thrill that Emma has stopped peeling grapes to listen in. She obviously expects a smackdown.

The cheerleading coach’s nostrils are flaring in the same way a young male silverback gorilla’s might during mating season.

“The farcically mal-adjusted collection of over-sexed Bratz dolls you call _Glee Club_ already command over a third of this school’s extracurricular budget!”

“Thirty eight percent, actually.” Will agrees charmingly. He spares a conspiratorial glance for Emma, who rolls her eyes. “That’s because, _Sue_ , the Glee Club carries the morale of the entire school on their shoulders—”

“--In case you hadn’t noticed, _William_ :” Sue retorts “the members of your Glee Club carry _nothing_ on their shoulders-- including essential items of high school paraphernalia-- because there’s a whole swathe of less musically-endowed freshmen employed through various forms of bribery and personal intimidation to _do that for them_.”

Will shrugs: “And?”

Sue slams her palms melodramatically down on the tabletop.

“Your _Glee Club_ have turned this school into a playground of psychological horror, and Figgins wants to hand them _my_ cheerleaders’ seasonal uniform budget??!”

At this last outburst, Will feels a tiny smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. This is the problem with Sue Sylvester: she can start out on a fairly sensible, valid point, and then she ruins it by mutating into a blonde, polysyllabic screech monkey.

Glad that Emma’s here to witness him taking Sue to the carpet (in a verbal, totally not physical in any sense, way) Will leans across the table, ignoring the blazing hellfire in Sue’s eyes and getting into her space.

“Sue. I understand your frustration.” he says, mock-soothing: “But face it: your cheerleaders will never be as important to the school as my Glee Club. My students encourage harmony, expression, creativity... Yours spell out words. With their arms.”

Sue stands up, scraping her chair agonisingly along the floor. Will just smiles.

“You won’t get away with this William.” She hisses “It’s gone on too long already. There are other students at this school who deserve the chance to shine.”

“Well I’m holding auditions at the end of next week.” Will reminds her beatifically. “Tell any of them they’re welcome to sign up.”

He rests his chin in his hand, pleased at the look of apoplectic rage on Sylvester’s face. He risks a glance back at Emma-- her expression remains bored and condescending: but

that last grape never quite made it to her mouth.

He’s so caught up in staring at the sweet, pink lusciousness of her lips, he only barely manages to stifle a shriek when Sue’s chair clatters violently against the tiled floor, and the cheerleading coach stalks, snarling, from the room.

 

*

 Sue marches down the hallway, elbowing students aside, impervious to their shouts; their grunts of pain as spine connects with locker.

_Will Schuester_.

He’s insufferable at the best of times: the king of the miscreants, personality permanently disfigured—probably a side-effect of the amount of dangerous chemicals absorbed into his brain via his hair follicles.

But this is the last straw.

Glee Club have ruled the school for too long. Yes; the Cheerios may possess the collective intelligence of an undercooked soy burger. But en masse Sue knows her cheerleaders are an athletic force to be reckoned with.

There are schools out there—Sue’s heard— schools that are _proud_ of students who are fit, and healthy; proud of glowing young Americans who can run up stairs to the Taco Bell without having to stop off for a sneaky Krispy Kreme on the way, weeping as they massage Biofreeze into aching cankles.

Sue spares a glower for the choir room door as she passes. She’s positive it rattles on its hinges a bit in fear. 

William McKinley High will be one of those schools, she vows. That extra budget money will be hers. She _deserves_ it. _Her Cheerios_ deserve it.

And the _Glee Club_?

Glee Club will be no more.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Somehow, Puck manages to make it to lunchtime glee rehearsal. There’s still a lot of staring and whispering, and on the way to choir room he has to duck into the football locker room more than once to avoid that crazed sleazeball Israel shoving a microphone in his face; but eventually he stops trying to camouflage his head in his letterman jacket and starts humming Black Eyed Peas'  _I Got A Feeling_  under his breath instead, stupid dopey grin pushing at his cheeks.

Yeah; he has no idea.

There’s a sheet of paper taped to the wall in the choir-room just beside Lillian Adler’s plaque, and to distract himself from pacing the length of the floor like some kind of lovesick dingo while waiting for Kurt to arrive, Puck wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans and squints to read it:  
  
 **GLIST**  
OCT 12TH 2009:  
  
 **1\. Rachel Berry +500**  
 **2\. Kurt Hummel +147**  
 **3\. Finn Hudson +98**  
 **4\. Mercedes Jones + 95**  
 **5\. Tina Cohen-Chang + 76**  
 **6\. Artie Abrams +76**  
  
“Hey.” He jerks his head at Finn, who’s sprawled across two of the crappy plastic chairs, stuffing pizza into his mouth as fast as he can before Rachel catches him. Puck points at the list:

“Know what this is?”

Finn nods, pushing himself back up to sitting.

“Ifaglift.” He says.

Puck’s eyebrows would’ve disappeared into his hairline, if he’d had one: “… Ya what?”

“It’s The Glist.” Another familiar voice supplies— it’s Artie, who’s half-in half-out the doorway, waiting for Tina to finish wedging it open. Suddenly anxious again, Puck stuffs his hands in his pockets:

“Uh, what’s a ‘Glist’?”

“ _The_  Glist.” Artie corrects, looking at Puck over his glasses like it’s an important distinction. Tina straightens up and tosses her long black hair gracefully over her shoulder, giving him a tiny smile that’s kind of like the one he gets from his math teacher when he fucks up in geometry.

“It’s a portmanteau.” Rachel supplies curtly as she arrives just behind them, wafting past Tina and Artie with Kurt and Mercedes trailing in her wake. Puck immediately straightens up, his eyes helplessly following the most graceful brunette of the trio, who is once again doing a great job of not noticing him.

“Two words combined together to make one?” Rachel tries again “The Glist: known in its proper form as the  _Glee List_.”

Kurt finally catches Puck’s gaze, and maybe Puck imagines it, but the highest spots on Kurt’s perfect cheekbones seem to flush a little pinker.

“Stop frowning, you’ll get wrinkles.” The other boy warns sharply, going across to prop his messenger bag at the foot of one of the chairs.

Puck opens his mouth automatically to apologise; but is stopped short by Kurt returning to press his lips oh-so fleetingly against his own— and just like that, just like every time Kurt kisses him, Puck’s totally forgotten what they were talking about.

“God, could a girl  _be_  more single?” Mercedes sighs loudly, rolling her eyes as she whips her Blackberry out of her pocket.

“I assume you read Jacob Israel’s blog?” Kurt enquires, pulling away again and fussily straightening his bangs out. If it wasn’t totally ridiculous, Puck might even think he was nervous.

“ _Everyone_  reads Jacob Israel’s blog. Even people who can’t read.” Artie interjects pointedly, and Puck bites his lip. “He does a voice-post for short-bus passengers.”

“His words are somehow even more distressing when spoken aloud.” Rachel adds, looking disapproving.

“Ok, um, yeah, I’ve read it.” Puck interrupts. “But I don’t…”

“The Glist is posted every week.” Kurt explains. “On the front page?” He raises his eyebrows at Puck’s continued blankness, then waves a fluttery hand of dismissal, wandering back over to Mercedes: “You’ve probably seen it so often you don’t even notice anymore. It’s all the members of the Glee club listed in descending order of popularity—”

“—Myself at the top.” Rachel interjects, granting one of her widest, whitest smiles to Finn, who looks temporarily blinded.

Kurt crosses his arms:

“Well, yes; but with Jacob I like to think there’s a clear bias.”

“Every member of the club gets included in the Glist,” Rachel continues resolutely, playing with Finn’s fingers as she talks: “and we post this copy up after publication so the well-oiled cogs of the Glee Club’s publicity machine can keep in touch with the opinions of the wider student populous—”

“—Alright guys, why all the chit-chat?”

Mr Schuester’s reprimanding voice shakes Puck out of his reverie, as the gleeks around him immediately scuttle to form a straight line across the centre of the room.  
The showchoir director strides in, all business and flinty-eyed, pulling an envelope out of his pocket:

“Only forty-seven days till Sectionals— we can’t afford to waste a  _minute_  of that time... Noah Puckerman, what are you doing in here?”

Puck freezes, standing dumbly in the middle of the room.

“I, um, I’m here—”

He feels soft, warm fingers wrap viciously tight around his wrist, yanking him backwards into the line.

“He’s with me Mr Schue.”

Mr Schuester crosses his arms, leaning back against the piano. “I don’t think I should have to remind you that this is a  _closed rehearsal_  Kurt?”

“Of course not.” Kurt retorts frostily, and for the first time Puck wonders how the Glee Club actually functions with so many egos bouncing about. “Noah plans to audition nextweek: he wanted a taster session before committing himself.”

_Wait: audition? What?_

“That’s what she said.” Artie murmurs, earning him a glare from Mr Schue and a poke in the ribs from Tina.

Puck just stares, horror-struck, at the side of Kurt’s face— but the other boy doesn’t turn around, locked in a  _bitch, please_  contest with Mr Schue until eventually the teacher sighs and flips his envelope over in his fingers.

“Fine.” He points the envelope at Puck: “Mr Puckerman— I’ll expect you to be first in line at auditions.”

Puck swallows, and it’s only Kurt smacking him sharply on the arm that forces him to reply:

“Uh, sure thing Mr Schuester. Thanks. Um…”

“Right. To business.” Mr Schue holds out his envelope, showing off the inoffensive item of stationary to the entire class. “ _This_  landed on my desk this morning.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Puck sees Rachel’s hand fly to her heart: “Am I singing for the President?” she gasps.

“Don’t be ridiculous Rachel.” Mr Schue sneers, dropping his hand back to his side. Rachel glares at him a second, before crossing her arms and letting her features fall back into their usual haughty neutrality.

“ _This_ ,” Mr Schue continues “is an invitation from the newly-reformed showchoir at Carmel High—”

Immediately, the room fills with whispered giggling. Rachel tosses her hair back, smiling up at the ceiling with a knowing smile; Artie flaps his hand in a mock ‘too-hot-to-handle’ gesture; Mercedes makes a face at Kurt and checks him with her hip, but Kurt just pouts back and rolls his eyes. Puck’s glad to see Finn looking just about as  _wtf_  as he is, and for a second their gazes meet and they shrug minutely at each other, before Mr Schuester slams his palm down on the top of the piano and everyone jumps about half a foot in the air, mouths instantly clamping shut again.

 _“Thankyou.”_  He says dryly. “Now: these are our tickets to Vocal Adrenaline’s first invitational of the year. It’s this Saturday—I expect  _all of you_  to be there. We really need to get moving on with our campaign if we want to get a leg-up on the competition…”

“Competition?” Rachel scoffs. ”Please, Mr Schuester: even  _I_  have trouble understanding why we should waste valuable weekend rehearsal time attending the sub-standard performances of a show-choir that was disqualified from their last  _sectionals_  competition because they’d forgotten to bring the  _cassette tape_  they usually  _mimed along_  with.”

“Nonetheless.” Mr Schue interrupts “they’ve invited us and it’s only polite we accept.” A vaguely sly look slides across the teacher’s face. “Think of it this way: the better we know their weaknesses, the more satisfying it’ll be when we exploit every single one of them at sectionals. Hey—if we really try, maybe we can get them disqualified from this years’ competition as well!”

The club starts giggling again. Mercedes and Kurt share a worryingly conspiratorial wiggle of their fingers; Artie looks over his glasses at Tina in a way that could only really be described as scheming… and even in profile Rachel is managing to look wickedly smug and Puck thinks, kind of incredulously:  _fuck: they’re actually serious…_

Mr Schue reclines back against the piano with the air of a warlord surveying his minions.

“So that’s this Saturday, here, ten am sharp.” He reiterates. “We’ll take the bus. Ok; that’s enough chat. Like I said: only forty-seven days until Sectionals— that means forty-seven days to teach Mr Hudson his right from his left in the hope that he might actually be able to dance the lead without shoulder-checking his partner into the orchestra pit. Tina: find the board markers.”  
  


*  
  


Finn rubs uselessly at the ‘L’ and ‘R’ written loud and proud across the back of his hands as they wander out to fifth period.

“Dude, maybe you just get tattoos, right?” Puck suggests sympathetically, a couple of steps behind. “It’s gotta be easier.”

Finn’s eyes are getting wider and wider: “I think I’m allergic…” he mutters worriedly. “Look: the skin’s going all red…”

“It’s going red because you’re rubbing it, sweetie.” Rachel tells him, taking Finn’s hands in hers and grimacing: “Don’t worry: all it’ll take is a little nail-polish remover and some tender, loving care…”

Glee rehearsal had been  _ball-busting_. Despite hanging around with the glee kids for the last couple of weeks, Puck had never actually sat through the Circus of Pain that was Mr Schuester’s lunchtime rehearsals. Like, he knew the gleeks were tough—any group that commanded the rule of school had to be tough—but he hadn’t expected Schue to outlaw  _sitting_  for the whole hour and a half; or arrange the group in pitch order according to who was most likely to give him a brain clot... Then there was that thing where he made them  _eat_  their sheet music...

‘Course, Puck wasn’t allowed to join in, since he wasn’t really part of the group yet (he would ‘terrorise their aural dynamic’)— but he was totally having abtastic sympathy pains watching Tina do all those stomach crunches (she’d had to do Artie’s as well), and he felt embarrassment all the way to his toes for Finn, who kept screwing up on the choreography until Mr Schue snapped and made him do it with Rachel  _on his shoulders_.

Yeah, you heard him.

The only thing that really made it worthwhile was that one time Kurt had caught Puck watching him, and smiled a bright little surprised smile at him before it morphed into his failsafe eye-roll.

“So, uh, what class you got next?” Puck asks, brushing his arm against Kurt’s as they walk. He knows how particular Kurt is about physical contact and, no, Puck still isn’t brave enough to initiate a hand-hold or anything dumb like that, so he settles for just reminding the other boy that he’s there.

“Why?” Kurt barely looks up from his nail-beds “Are you planning on offering to help me study for AP Calculus?”

Puck bites his tongue.

“Was just curious.” He shrugs. “Maybe, I could walk you?”

Kurt smiles sweetly at him: “Why thankyou Noah; but I think I have the hang of  _walking_  by now, and I wouldn’t want you to get lost.”

Mercedes is not doing a great job of hiding her snigger and Puck looks away, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his letterman.

He lifts his eyes to focus over Rachel’s head— racking his brain to remember how the softness of Kurt’s lips against his made him feel more complete and accepted than anything else has in years— when he notices Quinn and Santana walking towards them from the opposite direction, sipping their slushies and pressing back against the lockers to let the Glee crowd past, as is expected.

Puck feels a sudden flush of guilt. He ducks his head down even further, hoping his red cheeks will camouflage with the McKinley Titans team colours. Call him paranoid if you want, but he can almost  _hear_  Santana’s sneer from here; laughing at him for trying so damn fucking hard to fit in; shuffling along like he’s actually part of this crowd of beautiful people, instead of just a pathetic tag-along.

… Well, y’know what?

 _Fuck_  Santana.

“Hey.” Puck stops in his tracks, reaching out a hand to grab Kurt’s elbow before he saunters past him.

The look on the other boy’s face is 100%  _unhand me, cretin_  but, to Puck’s infinite surprise, he  _does_  stop, and Puck quickly jerks his hand back in case he gets bitten.

“So you do  _remember_ yesterday, right?” He asks in as casual a voice as he can manage, before his brain catches up with his mouth. “With the serenading and the talking and the… kissing and stuff?”

Kurt glances around him, like he’s searching for secret service backup.

“Of course I do.” He says quickly, and again, his tone’s all prissy and enunciated, but his perfect skin flushes all across his nose. “What’s your point?”

“It’s just… you’ve hardly said like two words to me today, and I thought we were, y’know, gonna try this thing— _us_ , whatever— and I kinda just wanna know where I stand ‘cos right now? It sorta feels like yesterday all over again, except with, like, hi-def and the stage at the Superbowl and me with nothing but my guitar to protect my man-junk.”

 _Oh dude_. Puck’s brain groans as it finally wanders up:  _word vomit. Total word vomit. You may as well have just barfed up all over his freakin’ blazer._

Kurt’s just staring at him. His eyes have somehow managed to get even bigger than normal— he looks vaguely wondering, as if he’s never seen a creature quite like Puck before and wants to pin him to a collector’s card. But weirdly, when Puck looks closer, he’s sure that’s the tiniest inkling of a smile twitching the corner of the other boy’s mouth.

Kurt hikes his messenger bag further up his shoulder:

“Nothing but your guitar, huh?” He repeats.

It  _was_  a smile.

Puck’s so shocked that his mouth drops open without his say-so… But whatever he was going to say, he’s interrupted by a sudden shock of ice-cold spattering against the side of his face; and a split-second later a blood-curdling, strong-lunged scream fills the corridor, along with the sweet tangy metallic smell of artificial raspberries.

“Nice facial, loser!” Santana calls cheerily, as she and Quinn slide past the crowd of horrified onlookers, leaving Rachel Berry standing, utterly stunned, dripping with ice and corn syrup like she has no idea what just happened.

"Oh my god, someone just slushied  _Rachel_." Puck hears Tina hiss needlessly-- but she may as well have shouted it, considering the complete and total silence that has descended on the corridor.

From five feet back, Puck stares gapingly at the Glist-topping diva— her perfect hair sticking to her face, blue slush dripping from the hem of her skirt— like maybe the whole world has just been drop-kicked off its axis.

Then he glances at Kurt.

McKinley’s resident ice-bitch looks completely horrified, head moving to follow Quinn’s retreating Cheerios uniform as the blonde reject heads to class, his eyes fixed on the pink cherry slushy left ominously unused in her hand.

Puck bites his lips hard together.

_Fuck._


	3. Chapter 3

“Iced-drinks  _to the face_.” Sue enunciates, pushing her fingertip down into Figgins’ desktop. “The international symbol of mockery and repulsion since Roman peacekeepers saw fit to soak a bath sponge in vinegar and feed it to Jesus.”

At the mention of his saviour’s name, Principal Figgins’ mouth settles into a tight line, and Sue resists the urge to pluck the industrial staple-gun from his desk drawer and make sure it stays that way.

“Principal Figgins,” she intones instead: “the students at McKinley High are clearly exercising their constitutional right to overthrow a corrupt, brutal and altogether  _tuneless_  regime. The people have spoken. The reputation of the  _Glee Club_  has hours left to live. Why prolong the inevitable? Be merciful: give my cheerios the booster money earmarked for those flabby sociopaths and let the  _Glee Club_  find the peace it deserves in a quiet, secluded, unmarked grave.”

Figgins crosses his arms across his chest.

“Sue: this was an isolated incident! Only  _one_  student was slushied, and the girl responsible has already been  _reprimanded_ \--”

“—further proof that this school is in the practice of denying students free expression—!”

“—free expression is the entire point of Glee Club, Sue! Besides, this school has had fourteen students through to the televised audition stage of American Idol based solely on their association with such a highly achieving showchoir! Do you know what that level of popular celebrity does for the economy of an area like Lima?! I haven’t paid a janitor in over two years!”

Sue closes her eyes, takes a long deep inhale, and lets that breath out with all the threat and purpose of a Koga Ninja.

“One isolated incident Figgins.” She repeats, narrowing her eyes grimly: “...You just witnessed the assassination of an archduke.”

Before Figgins can form any kind of counterargument, Sue draws herself up to her full, majestic height, and stalks from the room.

(Like a lioness, baby zebra still hanging from its jaws, sponsored by Adidas.)

Against the wall, just beyond the glass exterior of Figgins’ office, Quinn Fabray and Santana Lopez stand, their mildly flawed faces flushed with an excitement not dissimilar to that of Sue Sylvester when faced with a class of wheezing freshmen and a repossessed blowtorch.

“Babies.” Sue greets them, once more narrowing her eyes and staring them both down with equal amounts of steely resolve:

“Fantana. Outstanding work.”

Santana smiles, after frowning for just a second to process her name change.

“Q-tip—”

“—I—”

“—there’s no ‘I’ in ‘terror’, Q.”

The girl presses her pouty pink lips together, knowing better than to reply.

“And when I give you a clear, cherry-flavoured shot at the faces of your oppressors, I don’t expect you to turn chicken faster than some ethnic minority princess in an endearingly retro Disney cartoon.”

Quinn shuffles her feet a bit:

“It won’t happen again.”

“No, it won’t.” Sue grins, this time entirely cheerfully “Because this— ladies— is  _war_.”  
  


*  
  
As Thursday draws to a close, Puck skips out of Math early, pleading another of his kinda-suspiciously-predictable migraines—but he wanders out to the parking lot to find Kurt’s parking space already deserted. He bites unhappily at the inside of his cheek, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his letterman. He never figured one slushy attack could freak someone out so bad.

Friday isn’t much better. He and Kurt have exactly zero classes together, and when he shows up at the glee club lockers in the morning there’s no-one there. He makes it to the choir-room just in time to meet them all exiting for first period, everyone wearing their custom printed New Directions hoodies with the hoods  _up_. Kurt looks miserable at having his hair so distressed, and when he sees Puck lurking he just shoots him a look that’s half-steely-resolve, half-apology, and ducks away in the direction of History.

 _Im nt gona slushy u_ , Puck texts him from under the desk in Bio. Then, thinking that sounds too snarky he adds:  _did I do sumthin?_

He never gets a reply.

So by the time Saturday-- and New Directions’ field trip to Vocal Adreneline’s invitational-- rolls around, it’s really the first chance Puck’s had to speak to his supposedly-boyfriend since Santana’s ice-cold sneak-attack.

Mr Schuester’s still glowering at him suspiciously at every opportunity, because his official audition isn’t until next week (oh god whole other world of pain he hasn’t even thought about yet  _fuck fuck fuck_ ) but Puck decides to ignore him and just pay attention to Kurt, who managed to avoid him the whole bus journey by sitting next to Mercedes, but who now is standing alone in the queue for coffee at Carmel’s overcompensating snack-bar.

“Hey.” Puck says, sidling up.

Kurt glances at him. “Hello Noah.” He at last has the graciousness to look mildly embarrassed.

“So, you’ve been avoiding me--”

“—I’ve been avoiding you because New Directions’ continued cross-strata dalliances have begun an inter-student war which I have no desire to be caught up in.” Kurt explains curtly.

Puck feels his stomach swoop down to somewhere round about his knees.

“It was  _one slushy_.” He retorts, louder then he meant to. Kurt’s head twists round, as if afraid of eavesdroppers. He glowers up at Puck’s face:

“Do you have any idea how delicate the balance of power is at McKinley? Do you have any idea how hard I have to work to be as popular as I am?” he hisses, and Puck is honestly kind of flabbergasted at his intensity. “ _One slushy_  could ruin everything. Look at Rachel:” they both turn to eye the satin-haired diva. “Her eyebrows are running rampant. That’s  _fear_ , Puckerman.  _Stress_  and  _fear_.”

“Your eyebrows look fine.” Puck says, irritated.

“Exactly.” Kurt takes a defiant sip of his mocha.

The bell goes announcing the performance is about to start. Mr Schuester’s voice cuts through the hubbub:

“New Directions! Row G! If you want some confirmation of the kind of mocking, judgemental expressions I wanna see, just check out Mercedes’!”

“Damn straight, Mr Schue!”

They start shuffling towards the auditorium.

“So you’re dumping me?” Puck questions hollowly, guessing he should get it out in the open.

Kurt stares at him, long-suffering.

“Why is it always about you, Noah?”

Puck just blinks at him. Not for the first time, he remembers ice-bitch isn’t just Kurt’s snappy high-school nickname.

“I don’t get you.” He admits flatly, the hairs on the back of his neck still riled. “You’re happy to date me so long as no-one knows about it?”

“Bingo, Banjo.” Kurt deadpans back, pushing past a squalling family to get to his seat with the rest of New Directions, bang smack in the centre of the auditorium.

Mr Schue leans in, lowering his voice to conspiratorial tones:

“Now guys, let’s play good sports here. Just because we’re six-hundred to one favourites for Sectionals doesn’t mean we need to rub it in.” he grins smugly. “I have a feeling the quality of their performance will, um… speak for itself.”

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" Puck jumps a bit in his seat as the loudspeaker blasts its introduction “PLEASE GIVE A WARM, BUCKEYE STATE WELCOME TO YOUR SOON-TO-BE SHOWCHOIR CHAMPIONS— VOCAL ADRENALINE!!!!”

The audience stutters into polite applause, barely masking the sound of the curtain screeching as it’s retracted into the rafters. Puck risks a sideways glance down the row of New Directions: Artie and Tina are making out; Finn’s staring around to find where the voice came from; Rachel’s leaning against his arm with a look of bored superiority on her face; Mercedes is texting, and Kurt is slouched casually in his seat, propping his head up with two fingers like he might doze off any second.

On stage (Puck supposes) are Vocal Adreneline.

They’re dressed in freakily identical outfits, standing to attention in a cluster in the middle of the stage, waiting for their cue. There’s at least two dozen of them.

Puck bites his lip.

They look nowhere near as epic-faily as he expected.

Beside him, he feels Kurt sit up a little straighter, suddenly focusing.

_“Ohio, Ohio, Ohi-i-ooohh…”_

And then Puck almost covers his ears, because this total fuckin’  _brick wall of sound_  is coming straight at him:

_“They tried to make me go to rehab and I said ‘no, no no’…”_

The dancers explode across the stage, spinning and twisting and ducking under each other’s arms as the Amy Winehouse classic blasts defiantly through the auditorium. The showchoir is a blur of blue and black, busting a routine that looks just the hell-side of impossible, hitting every beat of the music, never missing a step—never missing a note, ‘cos even with all the throwing each other about, their voices don’t waver.

_“I’d rather be at home with Ray…”_

The soloists weave seamlessly in and out of the group, smiles pasted across their faces. They’re a perfect, synchronised machine, and this is the definition of a group number. Puck’s never seen anything like it, even from New Directions. All they’re missing is a guy doing back-flips.

__“Yes I’ve been black, but when I come back you’ll know know, know, know…”_   
_

_Fuck. _There’s_  the guy doing backflips._

The crowd screech their appreciation, scrambling to their feet to get a better view. All around Puck people are clapping, cheering, punching the air… It’s fuckin’ insane. The row in front are dancing, and ergo totally blocking his view; but Puck can’t go anywhere ‘cos Vocal Adrenaline have just sucker-punched him in the gut.

_“He’s tried to make me go to rehab, but I won’t go go GO…!!”_

The last note blasts triumphantly into the theatre, and the audience just go wild. Even from their eight rows back, Puck can see the looks of smug superiority on the faces of Vocal Adreneline’s members— even as they glisten with sweat, chests heaving-- and it looks like one perfect, synchronised Fuck You.

Mr Schue’s suggestions of good sportsmanship forgotten, New Directions just stare, gobsmacked, frozen in their seats. In his peripheral vision, Puck can see almost identical looks of horror repeated all down their row, and Mr Schue’s hair looks like it’s starting to uncurl at the ends.

Puck can relate. He’s honestly so unnerved that he barely notices Kurt’s fingers clenched desperately hard around his.  
  


*  
  
“William.” Sue Sylvester smiles like a particularly unhinged she-wolf.

Will glowers sulkily at Figgins. Monday mornings are not his favourite, and now he has to deal with her? “What the hell is  _she_  doing in here?” he snarls.

“William! Language!”

Will settles for lifting his chin and fixing Sylvester in a stare designed to puncture kidneys.

“William.” Figgins tries again, settling back into his chair. “I think it’s time we had a discussion about your tenure as director of the Glee Club.”

Will feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He’s getting a pretty bad feeling about this meeting.  
  


 

“We’re d-d-doomed.” Tina pronounces from her perch cross-legged on top of the piano.

Puck can’t help how his head whips round to look at her: he’s never noticed her stuttering before. But then, Tina’s usually more a frosty silence type.

Artie glares at her. “Babe.” He says warningly— and that seems to be enough to persuade the Asian girl back into wordlessness, combing her fingers thoughtfully through her long hair.

Rachel barely grants either of them a glance. She and Finn are sitting side by side, front and centre on the risers, leaving the rest of the gleeks standing in awkward court around of them.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tina.” she dismisses smoothly “We’re not  _doomed_. We’re  _New Directions_ \-- Vocal Adrenaline pull off one above-deplorable performance and you’re all ready to break out the razor blades?” she gives a tiny shrug of epic blasé-ness: “I say this is simply a chance for us to enjoy the thrill of  _plausible_  competition.”  
  


 

“And what exactly are we discussing?” Will snaps, leaning forward to get Sue out of his eye-line. Unfortunately, it doesn’t mute her voice:

“Your failure,” The cheerleading coach intones gleefully “as an educator and— I’m reliably informed by my posse of minimum-wage Taiwanese private investigators— as a  _man_.”

“This is totally out of line.” Will objects, discreetly crossing his legs. “New Directions is the most successful extracurricular at this school.”

“Was.” Figgins corrects, not quite able to meet Will’s eyes.  
  


 

“Rachel’s right.” Kurt interjects delicately. He raises an eyebrow, as if challenging the rest of the room to disagree. “The shock was simply because we weren’t expecting it. There was nothing they did up there that we couldn’t do.” He flutters his fingers dismissively: “And with more flair.”

“Oh?” Artie looks unconvinced: “I didn’t realise advanced acrobatics was a substantial part of your oeuvre, Kurt.”

“Or yours, Artie.” Kurt retorts sweetly, eyes raking over Artie’s wheeled form.

“Babe, do you maybe wanna flirt on your own time?” Mercedes interrupts, pushing herself away from the piano and wandering to the centre of the room. “It don’t matter who’s the better showchoir.” She reminds them all sullenly: “That audience were practically stage-divin’, and when was the last time that happened to us, even at our own invitational?”

Rachel gives a knowing little huff of laughter: “The general public are notoriously deficient at recognising true talent—”

“—Yeah, but it’s the general public who get to vote for us at the end, isn’t it?” Mercedes counters. “I tell yah, did ya see that girl two rows back? Hyperventilating with so much joy she had to get carried out on a  _stretcher_. Most popular wins. Every time.”

“But we  _are_  most popular.” Kurt reminds from behind her, voice dripping condescension. He glances around at the assembled group with narrowed eyes. “No-one’s seriously disputing that are they? Not after one performance.”

Mercedes continues to look unimpressed, and jerks her thumb in Rachel’s direction: “Yeah, well you might wanna check with the slush-magnet over there just how  _popular_  New Directions are at McKinley High.”

 

  
“—Oh my god, it was  _one slushy_!” Will exclaims “Will everyone stop making such a—”

“—But that  _one slushy_  has had a knock-on effect William! I’ve had more and more reports of misconduct by your Glee club, from children who were, until now, too afraid of repercussions to speak out!”

Sue shakes her head: “Poor, victimised, children...”

“This is you, isn’t it?!” Will rounds on her, a curl coming free and falling across his forehead like an outward sign of his fury: “You’re jealous that my kids are getting the rewards they deserve!”

“But after all I’ve heard William, I’m not sure they do deserve them!” Figgins counters, eyes wide. Will turns back to scowl at him, but although Figgins wilts like a cabbage under his gaze, he holds his ground.  
  


 

“Well I think we all realise that if you own a turquoise pant-suit at the age of sixteen, the least you can expect is some malicious confectionery being lobbed in your general direction.”

“Hey, uh, leave Rachel alone.” Finn protests— and then looks painfully sheepish as all the gleeks, including Rachel, just _look_ at him.

Half to rescue Finn, and half to try and look like the way smarter member of the jock-patrol, Puck risks a deep breath and says:

“Hey look; I know my opinion probably doesn’t count or whatever—”

“—That’d be the correct answer.” Mercedes interrupts smoothly, granting him a patronising glance over her shoulder. Puck swallows and tries again:

“…But you guys can totally beat Vocal Adrenaline. I mean, they were tight, and everything… but they were like…” his mind goes entirely blank “…dead inside.”

Once more, the glee kids are staring at him like he just ate a puppy. Puck feels that familiar flush of shame and embarrassment creeping over his face… but he just shrugs hugely, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Whatever, ok? I just… When you guys perform it’s like, I can really feel it—”

“—In your pants?” Mercedes suggests archly and, to Puck’s huge surprise, Kurt digs her in the ribs with his elbow, lips pressing tight together.

Puck meets his eyes for just a second.

“Sure.” he admits, glancing back at Mercedes’ unmoved expression. “’Cos your bff’s a hottie.”

At least half the people in the room roll their eyes.

“But even when, like,  _Rachel_  sings… it sends a shiver right down my spine, man.”

“And what exactly do you mean by—?”

“—Yeah.” Finn interrupts his girlfriend, nodding encouragingly. “Yeah, what he said. Vocal Adrenaline were awesome, but they had nothing on you guys. They were like… Showchoir Barbies.”

“…Ok. Y’all comin’ up with some seriously whack metaphors right now.” Mercedes observes; but Finn’s harmless flailing has softened her scowl slightly. Inwardly, Puck feels a stupid tug of jealousy that he tries to ignore.

“They were trying to psych us out.” Tina offers in a quiet voice, looking at Artie but probably talking to everyone. Puck realises once more just how little he’s heard her speak. “I bet that’s the only number they’ve rehearsed this semester.”

Artie still looks cynical: “Even if it was, it was still some high-class dope. They only need two more numbers like that to wipe the floor with us at Sectionals.”

All of a sudden, Rachel stands, hands resting resolutely on her hips:

“But there’s only forty-four days left.” She reminds them brightly. “There’s no way Vocal Adrenaline can keep up that level of energy for a month and a half. We’ve watched them fail miserably for years; they just don’t have the discipline—”

“—Guys!” Mr Schuester’s voice cuts across Rachel’s self-assurance like a whip-crack. “What do you think you’re doing just standing around? Only forty-four days ‘till Sectionals… And now you know what you’re up against...”

“Mr Schuester.” Rachel immediately slips in front of Puck, dark eyes lit up with new determination. “We’ve been discussing Vocal Adrenaline’s performance, and we’ve realised that their showchoir is no real threat to the outstanding talent encased within New Directions. Namely, myself.”

“That’s great Rachel, I’m glad you’re feeling so confident.” Mr Schuester returns bluntly, and Puck feels yet another ripple of uncertainty pass through the group.

“Mr Schue?” Finn urges.

“I’m glad you’re feeling so confident,” The Spanish teacher continues wearily “because Principal Figgins has just thrown us down an ultimatum.”

From here Puck can see the tight clench to Mr Shuester’s jaw as he glances around at the seven suddenly taut faces arranged before him.

“Based on New Directions’ free-falling popularity as an extracurricular,” he intones darkly “not to mention Vocal Adrenaline’s sudden leapfrog in the competition odds… Next week’s auditions are open to anyone who wants to apply.” Here, he shoots Puck a poisonous glower. “Not only that—but anyone who auditions for Glee Club will get in to Glee Club. And not only _that_ — if you guys don’t place at Regionals this year… Figgins is going to cut New Directions’ funding.”

There’s an audible gasp. Rachel’s hand flies to her mouth:

“…Cut?” she repeats in a horrified whisper.

Mr Schuester stares down his star pupil with eyes dead like a shark’s:

“Cut.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

“I came to you because you’re a Guidance Counsellor. You give Guidance. And boy, I need some guidance Emma. Big, shiny, solve-all-your-problems guidance, ‘cos I am floundering here. Floundering. Like a…Fish. Out of water. Without… Gills.”

Will clears his throat, pretty sure that that cascade of mixed metaphors was not at all what he had planned on saying as he stood outside Emma’s office for a quarter of an hour waiting for the perfect moment to make his dramatic entrance, and hopefully gain the minxy little guidance counsellor’s sympathy with his sudden career crisis.

He tilts his head a little, scrunching up his eyebrows:

“Emma?”

The guidance counsellor raises her big, long-lashed Bambi eyes.

“I’m sorry, I assumed you were enjoying the sound of your own voice. Was any of that diatribe relevant to you coming in here getting your sweaty fingerprints all over my desk-top?”

Emma pulls a handy bottle of Lysol out from the shelf behind her and proceeds to wipe-down her spotless workstation.

Will pulls his hands away from the anti-bacterial spray. Ok. Clearly this is going to be more difficult than he anticipated.

“I was just… I need some guidance.” He tries again, more seriously. “Figgins is doing his best to dismantle my showchoir kingdom, and I get the feeling  _now_  would be a really good time to abandon ship—before I’m forced to present New Directions at Sectionals boasting a chorus of illiterate football jocks.” Will shudders at the very thought, wiping a dispirited hand over his eyes.

Emma barely glances up.

“Then jump ship.” She says shortly. “I don’t see your problem. You’re a Spanish teacher Will.”

“A minor sideline.” Will dismisses with an eye-roll. “But I’ve waited for  _this_  my whole career. Ever since I left high-school I’ve dreamt about coaching the McKinley high Glee Club to Nationals, and  _winning_. Having that trophy would mean the world to me, and Figgins is ripping it out of my grasp over one slushy attack!”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit embarrassing that coaching a high school glee club is your biggest life ambition?” Emma asks, barely keeping the sneer out of her voice.

Will feels his brain stutter and jam.

“What?”

“Well, it’s kind of pathetic really. You’re just re-living your high-school glory days. What year did you graduate?”

“1993.”

“Mmm.” Emma reaches across, powering up her laptop.

Bemused, Will watches her and tries to gather the crumbs of his argument back together.

“But it’s more than that.” He explains emphatically, pushing a finger down on Emma’s newly-polished desktop. She gives him a look that could skewer a buffalo, but Will powers through it.

“Glee Club is the most important extracurricular at this school. It’s the best way we have of preparing kids for the outside world.”

“Do you think?” Emma’s voice is hugely sardonic, and she’s paying far more attention to examining a small imperfection in her flame-red nail-polish than Will’s impending breakdown, but Will decides to take her question as genuine anyway.

“Well, are you really going to argue that running up and down a field hugging a bundle of pigskin is a valuable life-skill?” he replies scornfully, hoping for some academic solidarity.

Emma just raises a delicate eyebrow, gaze fixed on her screen.

“What about the mathletes?” she asks. “The debate team? The physics club?”

“Well sure.” Will waves a hand. “But you know as well as I do Em that everything in this country’s about performance. Everything’s about fame. If you haven’t spewed some sob-story to the judges on American Idol by the time you’re twenty, you’ve clearly wasted your teenage years. Let’s face it: in 21st century America, being anonymous is worse than being poor.”

“Ah, here we go.” Emma smiles happily to herself— an expression that glints unsettlingly with too many bright, even teeth and fatale-red lipstick. She spins her laptop round to face Will’s puzzled expression, the opening credits of a YouTube video just beginning to roll.

Will feels his chest start to tighten as the song begins, and in the video a group of perfectly synchronised teenagers begin busting out their favourite mid-nineties dance moves.

“You’re a Spanish teacher Will.” Emma reminds him again as a tinny, acappella version of _Le Freak_  bounces around the cold glass walls of her office. “I bet your pregnant wife doesn’t agree that your chosen career in the school system is a ‘minor side-line’. You have a baby on the way. Maybe you need to start getting your priorities straight. Listen to your instincts: let Glee Club die its embarrassing little death; stop trying to reclaim your Prom King crown through this group of freakishly tuneful overachievers, and concentrate on teaching the next generation of Americans how to speak something other than text-speak.”

Will watches his younger self, singing and grinning with the happiest expression on his face he can ever remember having. He swallows the unexpected lump in his throat.

“…But it’s been my dream to coach Glee Club ever since I got into teaching.”

“Who cares?” Emma scoffs, lazing languorously back in her swivel chair. “Dreams get crushed Will. You said you came to me for guidance? Well here’s some guidance just for you. You want to save your reputation? Give up on Glee Club. Go where the money is. Ever thought of being an accountant?”  
  


*  
  


Finn stands in front of his locker, staring into its murky, sweaty depths. It smells like his sock drawer, which is kinda weird, ‘cos he doesn’t keep socks in his locker. Well, he doesn’t think so.

There  _was_  a reason for him being here. There was something he was looking for. But then he found that half-eaten packet of Sour Patch Kids that he’d totally forgotten about, and the happy surprise just knocked whatever it was right out of his head. He thinks he was searching for something for Rachel. Maybe he was meant to bring her something? It doesn’t seem too likely she’d leave things in his locker though. Rachel’s really particular about hygiene and stuff.

“Hi Finn.”

“Ow!” Finn winces as the metal edge of his locker clangs off his forehead.

Quinn scrunches up her eyebrows, looking sympathetic.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

She lifts one pale, delicate hand, as if to rub Finn’s injury better, and Finn automatically takes a step backwards, away from the girl’s grabby fingers and also the offending locker door.

“You didn’t.” A blatant lie. “It’s cool. It— it doesn’t hurt.” Another one.

Gosh; he always kind of forgets how small Quinn is. Not quite as small as Rachel, but still…

He clasps a casual hand over the growing egg on his hairline.

“So uh hey. How— how you doing?”

Quinn smiles brightly at him. Again, not as bright as Rachel, but still… kind of… sweeter. Or maybe, more crazy.

Man, that bump on the head has clearly messed with his brain.

“I heard about Figgins’ ultimatum to the Glee Club.” Quinn tells him quietly.

“Uh, yeah…” Finn feels that same rolling sensation in his stomach he’d felt when Mr Schuester had first told them, like he’s eaten some funky taco. “It’s, like, total garbage.” He sighs: “New Directions are the best thing about this school.”

He watches Quinn’s big green eyes widen even more. It’d be a good look on her if her smile hadn’t totally evaporated in the same instant.

“A month ago you were convinced they were evil brain-eating space-aliens.” She reminds him coolly.

Finn frowns: “Did I say that?”

“You  _and_  Puck. Well, maybe you were right…  _You’ve_  clearly had a lobotomy.”

“Are you kidding?” Finn’s horrified: “I would never let someone stick a camera up—”

“A month ago you thought Rachel Berry was the soulless love- child of Sadaam Huissain and Medusa.” Quinn continues, and now Finn knows she’s making stuff up ‘cos he has no idea who either of those people are. “And now you’re hanging off her arm like some whipped little labradoodle just because she felt like some social experimentation and decided to make you her trophy-boy this month.”

“Hey now, leave off Rachel. She’s my girlfriend—”

“— And how long’s that going to last? When all the losers at this school have decided dating you makes her fair-game in the slushy war?”

Slowly, Finn takes his hand away from his head.

“Face it Finn: Rachel; all of New Directions… All they care about is their popularity.” Quinn explains quietly. “All they care about is singing their pretty songs, and showing off their pretty bodies, and being worshipped by every brainless groupie they can get their hands on. And as soon as they realise you could  _stop_  that from happening? You’ll be dumped right back down in the sewage with the rest of us ‘losers’.”

Quinn has that freakily sincere look in her eyes that Finn’s only ever seen on those crazy tele-evangelist guys. He eyes the cross around her neck with new-found trepidation.  
He eyes it so hard, actually, that he hardly notices when the blonde’s hand comes to rest lightly over his.

“They’re bad for you Finn.” She says in a quieter voice. “I don’t want to see you become one of them. You’re better than that.”

Finn looks back at her. She’s really very different to Rachel: all that blonde hair, scraped back from her face; bright expressive eyes, perfect pale skin…

“Am I?” he asks her jerkily.

Quinn looks surprised to get a response. She blinks, then nods furiously.

“You’re better than most people.” She elaborates. Then, maybe a little wryly: “You’re certainly better than me.”

“So… Being popular makes me a bad person? The kind of bad person who throws slushies at someone’s face in the middle of the hallway?”

He watches Quinn’s jaw tighten, but she doesn’t look away. Carefully, Finn pulls his hand out from under the girl’s cool grip and shrugs:

“Nah. I don’t believe that. You’re not good or bad because of how popular you are. You can be both. You can be a good person  _and_  popular. You can be a total Lima Loser and be mean enough to deserve it. Like Coach Sylvester.”

Quinn’s ponytail whips about her head as she checks her cheerleading coach isn’t within eavesdropping radius. Finn sighs heavily:

“I  _like_  Rachel. Yeah, she’s loud and bossy and walks about like she owns the place but… underneath all that she’s just a girl who loves singing.” His mouth softens a little into half a smile: “Kinda like you.”

Quinn’s looks back at him, clearly a bit startled.

“And I think it’s good y’know; this open auditions thing; and me and Puck being in Glee club. Being popular doesn’t make me, like, Darth Vadar. It’s just me. Singing.”

Quinn gazes back at him, and Finn realises with a weird bout of embarrassment that this is probably the longest conversation the two of them have ever had. He watches as the girl crosses her arms tightly over her chest; as her eyes drift momentarily back to the grubby tiles on the floor.

Finn feels his phone buzz in his pocket, and in the weird molasses-like silence he turns it over and remembers what he was looking for in his locker.

“Hey, uh, I gotta go.” He says, and Quinn gazes questioningly up at him through her eyelashes. Finn drags up a grin for her.

“And y’know, don’t… worry about me. I’m still gonna be your friend, if I’m up on stage or not.” He gestures with expansive arms: “See? Awesome  _and_  popular.”

He backs up, grinning as Quinn’s smile stutters into existence in reply. Puck’s right: she  _is_  pretty when she smiles.

He turns and strides purposefully away down the corridor.

Quinn watches him go, adorable smile collapsing into a frown.

Clearly, she’s going to have to break out the big guns.  
  


*  
  
“Kurt. Please don’t run away, I just wanna talk to you.”

Kurt doesn’t even look like he hears Puck. He just keeps walking, cutting a razor-sharp path through the centre of the crowded hallway, Doc Martens impacting the floor in unsettling staccato; chin jutting haughtily as if he’d never even heard the words ‘slushy-attack’.

“Kurt, come on. Kurt…”

Inwardly, Puck prays for protection:

“…Hummel!”

As Puck expected he would, the other boy comes to an almost instantaneous halt. Then, Kurt spins on his heel, bag flying out from his side and almost hooking some poor freshman in the face.

“Ok, let’s get this straight Goofy, once and for all.” He bites off, stalking back into Puck’s personal space, and the words seem to slice Puck across the face like glass. “Dating you is not something I’m particularly proud of. As far as I can see, I gave in to your dubious charms in a moment of weakness and so far, exactly nothing in my life is better because of our unconventional mingling.”

Puck opens his mouth, but Kurt has clearly not finished:

“In the last week I have dropped off the social radar, I have plummeted sixteen points on the Glist, my most important extra-curricular is staggering around like a donkey shot in the leg, and I’ve almost had a perfectly glorious Gucci blazer ruined by cherry-flavoured corn syrup. Dating you is, at present, responsible for all the badness in my day and I  _don’t care_  if you love me. I don’t  _care_ …”

“Then break up with me.” Puck throws back, trying to force his voice down to an octave that sounds something less than terrified at the prospect. “Break up with me. It’s not like you’ve got some ulterior motive this time right?”

Kurt’s lip curls, forming the beginnings of that contemptuous sneer Puck knows so well, and his heart simply stops beating.

“Kurt!”

Puck has never been so grateful to hear Rachel Berry’s voice. He lifts his eyes from Kurt’s suddenly murderous expression and sees her marching down the hallway towards them, Finn close in tow.

“You need to come to the auditorium.” She informs Kurt, in a tone that suggests she doesn’t expect to be disobeyed.

“I’m busy.” Kurt grits out.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Rachel’s eyes rake over Puck’s form, as if he’s an inconveniently placed cockroach. “We need you. Was Artie in your class?”

“We’ve figured out the perfect song to get the school back on our side.” Finn explains excitedly, and Puck bites the inside of his mouth, suddenly irritated by Finn’s inability to just  _be cool dude_. “And to convince Mr Schuester to stick around.”

“Wait, what?” Kurt perfectly formed eyebrows scrunch untidily in the middle of his forehead. “Why would Mr Schuester  _not_  stick around?”

Rachel cocks her head slightly, like she’s explaining things to a toddler.

“Haven’t you heard? He’s been to see Miss Pillsbury about careers’ advice. He can’t handle the embarrassing possibility of having to present at competition with a Glee Club forcibly composed of football players and cheerleaders.”

Kurt closes his eyes slowly, as if the very idea is giving him a migraine.

“This world is high on amphetamines.” He mutters.

“Come on, we don’t have time to stand around debating. The future of the Glee Club is at stake.” Rachel chastises, in a voice that’s worryingly earnest.

Kurt prises his eyes open again, before sighing and gesturing for Rachel to lead the way— which she does with an intimidating amount of determination, pulling Finn and Kurt close behind in her wake.

After just a second’s jerky hesitation, palms still clammy with adrenaline, Puck follows them.

He wonders idly if he’ll ever be able to do anything else.  
  


*  
  


Puck hangs back a little, as he's learned to do in these gatherings. He wishes he had the guts to stand beside Kurt, like Finn does with Rachel, casually brushing arms, catching each other’s' gazes and smiling, like any normal smitten high-school couple. But he doesn't, and anyway: Kurt's furious words are still looping over and over in his head, making their slow but steady way through Puck's thick skin to scratch at his heart, and there's another part of Puck that's not sure it's healthy for him to be anywhere near Kurt at all right now.

“So  _King Jockstrap_  is making our song selections now?” Mercedes demands, pointing a glittering turquoise fingernail in the direction of Finn’s almost comically confused expression.

Rachel, however, ignores her, taking a graceful half-step sideways and placing her hand encouragingly against Finn’s arm.

“Finn  _and I_  are making our song selections,” she corrects breezily “because  _some_  members of this club are far too busy concocting snide comments to do anything productive.” She gazes around at her rag-tag group of teammates, the challenge implicit in her dark eyes. “Glee Club is being threatened; and I for one don’t intend to back down without a fight.”

Artie holds a hand up in the air: “Uh, ‘scuse me for interrupting, but isn’t this a good time for us to have the discussion about the fact Glee Club is ‘being threatened’ because you and Kurtsie here decided to flip the universe on its head and date these two delinquents?”

Puck shrinks a little at the casual accusation of Artie’s fingers; but Kurt’s head snaps up, glowering at the wheelchair-bound boy past the fingertips pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Artie, why don’t you take your attitude elsewhere, your bitterness is clogging my pores.” He practically growls; and Puck’s bizarrely reassured that he’s not the only one on the receiving end of Kurt’s bitchy temper.

“And again, I say,  _productive_.” Rachel enunciates loudly; and before anyone can reply, she gives Finn a little prod to return him to the centre of everyone’s attention.

“Go on Finn. Tell them what our idea is.” She prompts; and Finn stares widely at her for a couple of seconds before seemingly getting his shit together and clearing his throat.

“Um ok, so.” Finn takes half a clumsy step forward, into the middle of the unconvinced semicircle of faces. “Me and Rachel were thinking about all the crazy stuff that’s been happening; the slushies and Vocal Adrenaline and y’know, all that… And I think—” he looks to Rachel for clarification: “— _we_  think— that New Directions need to try… a new direction. To be popular again.”

Puck hears Mercedes lean in to whisper in Kurt’s ear: “He seriously just said that didn’t he?”

Kurt just crosses his arms, shifting his weight to his other hip.

“Look. You guys are  _amazing_  singers,” Finn begins again, off an encouraging nod from Rachel; and Puck’s surprised at how heart-felt his friend sounds, how genuine: “and you know everyone in school worships you for that. But now…Well, like Mr Schue said: anyone can join Glee club. Football players and mathletes and drama kids and puckheads… And I think you need to stop being just awesome singers; you need to be awesome and includive—”

Rachel coughs. “—Inclusive, sweetie. The word’s ‘inclusive’.”

“Right, yeah. Yeah.” Finn nods gratefully. “Inclusive— That’s the only way we’re gonna beat Vocal Adrenaline.”

“Oh hell to the naw.” Mercedes objects loudly, raising an eyebrow in a look that, in the past, has reduced squad-fulls of Cheerios to tears. “The whole point of Glee Club is that it’s  _ex_ -clusive. Ain’t it enough that we gotta let in whatever tuneless nobody shows up to auditions? Now what? You want us to go out there and drag them in by their ear? We got  _standards_  Finnocense. Something you and yo Walmart  _clearly_  ain’t familiar with.”

“You know they have a word for ‘inclusive’ in showbusiness.” Tina interjects, with a surprising amount of meanness. “It’s called ‘selling-out’.”

Rachel slams her hands on her hips: “We’re not ‘selling-out’ Tina; the quality of our music isn’t going to be affected—”

“—it will be if we all walk the hell out of here.”

“And then Glee’s club’s doomed to failure! Are you really that afraid of artistic progression?”

“A hundred bucks that boy’s favourite song is by Blink 182!”

“…Is-is that a bad thing?—”

“— As Team Captain, I’m one-hundred percent supportive of Finn’s proposal—”

“—Yeah, let’s see how supportive you feel about it when some skinny freak Cheeri-ho is front-flipping you out of the spotlight—”

“—Will you all just  _shut the hell up_?”

The words force themselves free of Puck’s mouth before he has any chance of second-guessing them. His hands jerk as if to clap instinctively over his mouth; but instead he forces them into tightly clenched fists hanging heavy at his sides, as every single member of the Glee Club turns to stare at him in startled disbelief.

Puck swallows painfully against the sudden race of his heartbeat in his throat. He glances fleetingly across at the oddly slack-jawed configuration of Kurt’s face, before turning back to Finn, who looks amazingly grateful and also kind of majorly nauseous.

“Did you have something you wanted to offer, Chippendale?” Artie asks dryly.

Puck’s fingernails are damn short, but they’re cutting slices out of his palms anyway.

“Yeah.” Puck replies bullishly, voice rough with sandpapery impatience. “Look. Finn’s got an idea to help save this Glee Club. He’s been here a month and he seems to care way more about it than any of you do. So, y’know; I think y’all need to pull the sticks outta your asses and listen to what he and Rachel have got to say, ‘cos as far as I know, you’ve all been way too busy having trauma counselling to come up with any better ideas.”

Puck has never heard a silence so loud. It’s ringing between his ears like his head’s stuck in a bass drum. The squeak of Artie’s wheels sounds like the first sound after an apocalypse.

And Puck is not surprised that Mercedes is the first to break it, in a casual drawl that belies a whole shed-load of pissed-off.

“Kurt babe, I think your boy-toy’s getting a bit big for his boots—”

“—Let it go, ‘Cedes.” Kurt interrupts, words so clipped he may well have cut them out with a scalpel blade.

Mercedes just stares at him; and Kurt stares back until Mercedes presses her lips together in a glossy pout that looks more wounded than Puck’s ever seen her.  
Kurt returns his attention to Finn and Rachel.

“So, are you going to divulge the name of this messianic pop hit? Or should we expect a round of charades?”

He sounds forcibly nonchalant, and it's enough to disarm every other barbed comment waiting on the others' tongues. Puck turns his head just a tiny bit; but Kurt's staring straight ahead, at Finn’s wide-eyed and thankful expression, and as the jock starts explaining again Kurt doesn't seem to have the slightest intention of acknowledging Puck’s intervention.

“Uh, no. No charades…” Finn grins wanly. “Ok. It’s like, the most popular song on iTunes ever.” He digs his ipod out of his pocket, yanking the headphones free; and all at once  Puck feels a beautiful warm shiver race through every cell in his body as Kurt takes a few inconspicuous steps closer, so their arms are pressing lightly together, and they listen to Finn’s idea side by side.

“…But more than that, it’s just really, really good. It’s by this group from the eighties. It’s called  _Don’t Stop Believin'_.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

Will locks the door to his office, fitting the McKinley High Thunderclap 1992/93 tightly under his arm, in case any other nosey member of staff notices it and puts two and two together.

It’s not that he’s nostalgic, Will thinks sullenly, as he takes his time making his way through the darkened after-hours hallways to the parking lot. His Glee Club never won anything. In four years they only made it to Nationals once. It wasn’t something to be proud of. Will remembers pretty vividly being  _mortified_  for eighteen months straight when Mrs Adler made him captain, and he took enough slushies to the perm to make Carrie’s pigs’-blood makeover look like a Top Model photoshoot.

Damn. He’s going to have to get that machine removed from school premises.

So no: definitely not nostalgic. But what he said to Emma was true: he’s wanted to be the one to catapult the New Directions into greatness ever since he got back to this school. He  _knows_  he can do it. After all: he’s the man with the golden touch. He’s the over-achiever extraordinaire. He’s the Head Bitch In Charge, dammit! And now Sue Sylvester and Vocal Adrenaline and Figgins’ freakin’  _budget calculator_  have decided he’s not worth the risk?!

Will curses under his breath, slamming his yearbook open at the sheet of paper slipped into the middle pages. An application form: H W Menken: accountants.

 _Go with the money_ , Emma’s voice tells him; and his common-sense agrees. Congressmen lining his paycheck to get their kids into Julliard-league showchoir competitions? Becoming the only showchoir director to make the New York Times most influential? His own slot on WOHN? It’s all starting to sound like a beautiful, gorgeous, dollar-soaked daydream.

He’s wallowing deep enough in his self-pity that he hardly notices the double-doors to the auditorium are unlocked. But as he strides past, something catches his ear; a strain of music; a weirdly familiar chorus that he can’t place.

Curiously, Will backtracks, nudging open the heavy swing door to the auditorium. The music gets louder.

Without considering it too hard, Will slips inside, deciding he is in  _exactly_  the right mood to find and punish whatever dreadfully foolish extracurricular has decided to make use of his performance space without permission.

He takes a few steps, holding the door so it doesn’t bang closed behind him. Overhead, he realises the auditorium lights are dimmed, the stage in front of him illuminated in a basic white wash with some blue overheads.

Onstage are New Directions— the six of them, including that irredeemable moron Finn Hudson. They’re all wearing red shirts and jeans, so Will immediately realises they’re rehearsing something—but he doesn’t recognise the costuming, and after ten seconds listening to the music blasting from the auditorium’s sound system he realises this most definitely isn’t a Schuester-approved addition to their repertoire.

Damn kids.

He knows the song though. A band from way back: Journey. Eighties pop-rock  _gods_.

Will puts a hand to his head as he watches that clumsy frankenteen harrumph around the stage, finding Rachel Berry as she steps out of the chorus-line and swinging her around carefully by her spindly waist. God, if that football freak breaks his female lead there will be hell to pay.

Behind them, Kurt, Mercedes and Tina race over to three standing mics, exhaling backing acapella as Finn and Rachel power their way through the bridge. Will’s never seen any of them voluntarily defect to backing vocals before. He takes a few steps closer, padding quietly up the centre-aisle. While Rachel and Finns’ smiles seem wide enough to permanently disfigure their faces, the others’ seem to be wavering a bit round the edges: but not like they’re fake; more like they’re not convinced they’re allowed to have this much fun while singing.

Well they’re right, they shouldn’t, Will reprimands silently. It’s Journey, for crying out loud. It’s ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’.

Yeah, that’s it: ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’.

Artie kicks in with the guitar-solo, Tina rushing across to grab his wheelchair and spin him around the floor, looking simultaneously like she’s really enjoying herself and like she’s really, really not allowed to do that. As he spins, Artie’s eyes remain fixed on his guitar, but Will can see him grinning and singing along with his chords.

The group comes back together, every voice joining in for the air-punching chorus. They stride in a line across the stage, and even the normally unflappable Kurt Hummel looks reluctantly exhilarated. As Rachel’s voice soars above, they stretch their hands imploringly up to the heavens and the last, triumphant “ _Don’t Stop!_ ” is a perfect musical punch in the throat.

Their heads and hands fall in perfect synchrony, as the lights cut and only the vague blues remain, lighting the six sweat-drenched figures arranged across the stage. For a few long seconds, the only sound in the suddenly silent auditorium is the embarrassing huff of exhausted heavy-breathing.

Unable to help himself, Mr Schue begins a slow, sharp clap.

Rachel’s head is the first to snap to attention, and for almost a full second she looks utterly horrified, before wrestling her features back into slightly quizzical neutrality. Kurt isn’t quite so good, and manages to just look defensive, staring Mr Schue down through the hair falling in front of his eyes.

Will rests his hands on his hips, raising unimpressed eyebrows at his yuppied-up Glee kids.

“What the hell was  _that_?”  
  


*  
  


Puck pushes himself straight from where he’d been resting his arms against the metal safety grating of the lighting box. He’d had to slip Lauren Zizes ten bucks and a pack of double-stuffed Oreos to let him up here, but it’s definitely the best view in the house, especially for a so-called ‘closed’ rehearsal.

Doesn’t give a great view of the doors though; and Puck had been so mesmerised by the performance onstage he hadn’t noticed Mr Schuester until the teacher had made his way halfway down the centre aisle, and by then it was way,  _way_  too late to warn anybody.

Puck cringes as the showchoir director’s Applause of Epic Sarcasm ricochets around the auditorium like a mis-judged sniper bullet. Rachel immediately glances up, dark hair bouncing around her shoulders, closely followed by the others.

“What the hell was  _that_?”

There’s a few seconds of general wide-eyed confusion, then, almost simultaneously, everyone on stage looks at Finn.

Even from twenty feet up, Puck can see his best friend’s teeth gnawing on his bottom lip as he steps out of formation. “It was, uh… ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’. It’s a Journey song.” Finn offers, accompanied by an awkwardly apologetic shrug of his shoulders.

“I know it’s a Journey song Finn; unlike all of you I was alive when it first came out, and even my three year-old self knew to barf over my Wheeties at the stomach-churning sentimentality.”

Finn glances unhappily down at his size twelves; “It’s… the most popular song on iTunes.” He argues, and Puck can see him trying to steel himself for a fight. “I think… I think it’s just the kind of song New Directions needs, if we wanna get enough members to compete at Sectionals.”

“I think it’s a great song.” Rachel says loudly, and Mr Schue looks ever-so-slightly flabbergasted. The tiny brunette fixes him with a haughty, no-nonsense gaze: “Finn’s right. We have an entirely new demographic to attract, and ‘Don’t Stop’ has just the right amount of popular appeal and musical kudos.”

Mr Schuester crosses his arms. “Popular appeal?” he repeats disdainfully. “I think you’re forgetting the entire ethos of this club guys—”

“—No, we’re not.” Tina corrects, lifting her chin and flipping her long dark ponytail over her shoulder. “Maybe eighties rock isn’t a natural fit for our traditional wheelhouse. But then,” she gives Finn a rare half-smile: “neither are football players.”

Mercedes looks defiant from behind her microphone: “Figgins wants to shake things up?” she says “We’re shakin’ things up Mr Schue. We’re not going down without a fight.”  
From his perch in the rafters Puck pounds his fist off the railing, forcing himself not to cheer.  _Fuck yes_.

Mr Schuester looks back at them all, face still painfully unimpressed.

Finn squints a little, tilting his head.

“What’s that Mr Schue?”

Puck follows his gaze, and for the first time notices a book in Mr Schuester’s hand. It’s a bright red McKinley High Thunderclap. He can’t see the date from here but it sure doesn’t look new.

Mr Schuester glances down too, looking at the front cover of the yearbook like even he hadn’t seen it before. For a long moment he stares at it, expression studiously blank, as on-stage the New Directions huddle a bit closer together, looking oddly defensive in their near-identical red and denim uniforms.

“Finn.” Mr Schue says finally, and Finn looks about ready to piss himself.

“Mr Schuester?”

“That chorus? If you want to kick ass with this song you’re going to have to hit that high B. Rachel?”

“Yes, Mr Schue?”

“You need to make the ones and the fives.”

Rachel looks bizarrely happy, looking at Finn with wide, shining eyes.

“Yes, Mr Schue….”

“The rest of you:” Mr Schuester eyes the other four, clustered away from Finn and Rachel’s puppy-love. “I want to see more energy.  _Buckets_  more energy. If you really want to sell ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’ to this school,  _you_  need to actually believe it.”

Puck is glad he’s so high up and no-one can see the huge stupid grin on his face. He bounces up and down on his heels,  _this_  close to jumping around in delight. God, he is such a dork. He glances down and watches as Mercedes pulls Kurt into a surreptitious side-hug, and the boy moues at her for mussing his hair, but Puck has never seen him smile so genuinely. He looks ridiculously gorgeous and Puck has a sudden realisation of how freakin’  _lucky_  he is and it almost makes him trip over his own feet.

Down below, Mr Schuester rocks back on his heels. He surveys the six teenagers lined up in front of him, and beneath the customary expression of scheming on his face, Puck’s sure he can see a flicker of something that might— on a generous day— look like to pride.

“Fine. You want to beat Figgins’ at his own game? We can do that. But it needs a hell of a lot more practice. That was a  _nine_  guys. I don’t expect  _nines_  in my Glee Club. Get back to your starting positions. Right… From the top.”  
  


*  
  


Kurt shakes the creases out of his red flouncy shirt and hangs it up in the costume wardrobe beside the rest of the ‘Don’t Stop’ outfits. He isn’t one for classic rock, not really; especially Journey; especially when his part is freakin’ monosyllabic backing vocals… But he’s gotta admit: they sounded, well… pretty tight.

He slips his bag over his shoulder and heads out to the parking lot. He’d expected Noah to make an appearance, and he’s not quite sure how he feels that he didn’t. Sure, it was a closed rehearsal… but it’s not like the other boy has ever objected to hanging around Kurt like a gummy octopus  _before_.

Maybe something more important came up?

Don’t be ridiculous.

The sun’s still bright in the late September sky, and Kurt smiles at the warmth on his face and thanks American Beauty for SPF 15 moisturiser. He digs a hand into his bag, searching absently for his sunglasses.

“Hey.”

Kurt comes up short, almost running smack into the broader figure suddenly in front of him.

“Noah.” He says as his gaze refocuses, managing to keep the surprise mostly in check. He takes a step back: “I’m surprised to bang into you; isn’t it Elementary English on a Tuesday night?”

“Sure, but I’m on Elementary Two now.” Noah responds, flushing a bit like the jokey comeback was totally beyond his control. He pushes his teeth into his bottom lip, but looks nowhere near as nervous as he usually does. It’s puzzling.

They look at each other for a few moments more, until it starts to get awkward.

“So. You guys sounded great in there.” Noah offers clumsily.

Kurt’s fingers curl round the strap on his bag:

“You were listening?”

“Yeah, I was kind of… skulking. But I caught the end. It was really, really good.”

“Mr Schue didn’t think much of it.” Kurt points out, and mentally kicks himself for showing weakness.

Noah’s eyebrows screw together: “He gave it nine out of ten.”

Kurt shrugs: “Yeah.”

One corner of Noah’s mouth curls upwards: “Well, I thought it was awesome. I thought  _you_  were awesome.”

Inwardly, Kurt rolls his eyes at the soppy predictability: “Of course you did--” But he finds the words die on his tongue as Noah curls a big, calloused hand around his neck and tugs their lips together.

The wall at his back is warm and solid as Noah presses him gently back into it, his broad, toned body a welcome pressure against Kurt’s, chest to chest. Automatically, Kurt’s hands go to Puck’s waist, dazedly curling in his belt loops to keep him close.

The sun feels hot on Kurt’s skin as the sound melts away from his world, leaving only the rush of the sea in his ears; the thrum of his heartbeat in his veins; in his head and chest and fingertips and lips as he kisses back his boyfriend.

He feels a sudden flare of anger; but it doesn’t last, diluted in the odd wave of contented dizziness that seems to emanate from that hand holding tight to Kurt’s hip.  
After a few moments that really aren’t long enough, Noah pulls away again, retracting his palm from Kurt’s cheek like he can’t hold on too long or he might burst into flames.

Kurt’s not sure why that thought makes him feel shame somewhere deep in his stomach.

He knows his eyes are stupidly wide and he’d like to say something witty; but before Kurt can find his voice again, Noah smiles and mutters a blushing: “See you tomorrow”, before he grabs his bike and starts pushing it towards the gates.

 


End file.
